she’d never seen before. Something that strummed on her heartstrings. Nixon was lonely for love? Was that it? Couldn’t be. He could have any woman he set his eyes on.
But wait, wasn’t there a rumour that he had a three-dates rule? He also shunned invitations from individual staff members to work social occasions, but that was probably sensible. Yet he’d asked her out. Strange.
She chose to be alone too, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want family and love. Nixon hadn’t said a word about his family when she’d talked about hers the day she’d blubbed all over him. He’d only said he was too busy for commitment. What with running a small but busy emergency department here in the Queenstown Hospital, where extreme sports injuries were as common as the tourists that filled the town all year round. Being a mountain-biking addict alongside his busy job, he didn’t have the time required for a full-on, permanent relationship.
Nixon might be surprised to know everyone knew he avoided relationships. It was fairly obvious when he only ever dated women who were visiting Queenstown, getting his testosterone fix without getting entangled. Emma hadn’t been able to decide if she should’ve been flattered or insulted when he’d asked her out. Apparently she’d been the exception to his rule. He socialised without getting involved, so he’d have been a perfect date for her. She’d have had fun. It wasn’t as if he were dull, weird, or afraid of his own shadow. Completely the opposite, in fact. Tall, built, fun, sincere.
Sexy.
Gasp.
Was it all right to think that of a friend?
Emma’s heart slowed. Sadness rocked in and darkened her mood; she closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see Nixon watching her with a hunger in his gaze that confused her. To her he was someone she worked with who’d become a good friend over the last few months. He was a man in need of a shake-up. Who amongst her old friends could she find to knock his knees out from under him? No one. What about—?
No one. Or—?
No one.
The thought of Nixon getting all cosy with someone she knew felt like a lead ball swinging at her head.
A phone sounded loud in the still room. ‘I’d better get back. The heli’s five minutes out,’ Nixon said as he read his message. ‘I grabbed a quiet moment to check on you.’
As her boss? Or as a friend. ‘You want to give me a lift home later?’ What was wrong with her? As if she wanted Nixon driving her home. But he’d ask less questions than her family.
Her mother got there before him. ‘I can come back in whenever you’re ready. You and Rosie should stay the night with us anyway.’
‘Thanks, Mum, but I’d prefer going to the apartment, taking a long, hot shower and curling up in my own bed.’ That was the truth, even if it meant having to stay awake until Rosie went to bed, which these days could be anywhere between seven and nine. The kid didn’t get bedtime rules at all.
‘Your brothers will be disappointed. Not to mention your father.’
Exactly. An inquest about her feelings was not on her agenda. ‘I’ll see them tomorrow.’
Nixon turned his formidable gaze from her to her mother and nodded. ‘I’m going to be tied up for a long time with what the paramedics are bringing in.’
‘What happened?’ Emma asked.
‘A mountain biker here for the Lake Hawea challenge went off the edge of the road somewhere on Cardrona while on a training ride and hit the rocks way below.’ Nixon headed for the door, and paused, one hand on the frame. ‘I’ll drop by later to see if you want me to give you a ride somewhere.’ A hint of challenge coloured his voice, which disappeared before he nodded to her mother, who was nudging Rosie towards the door. ‘A pleasure meeting you.’
Then he was gone, leaving a void in the room Emma wanted filled. By whom? By what? She had no idea, she only knew her head and heart were all over the place at the moment, and that had nothing to do with Nixon and all to do with the baby she’d delivered not so long ago.
Yet she felt that challenge even if she didn’t know what it was about. As if Nixon had handed her the baton and she needed to run with it. Now. When she’d just had a baby? When she did not need—or want—a man in her life? Forget her earlier longings. That had been baby-brain talk.
Baby. Her hands slid over her empty stomach. I had a baby today. And she’s nowhere to be seen.
Abbie’s baby. Not mine. Abbie’s baby. Abbie’s baby. My baby.
Emma cried herself into a restless, baby-filled sleep.
NIXON WRIGHT EASED himself onto the chair beside Emma’s bed, and, with his elbows on his knees, dropped his chin into the palms of his hands. The cyclist was in Theatre. He was done for the day. His own cycle at home beckoned but he’d told Emma he’d drop by before he left; hadn’t told her he needed to check on her for his own peace of mind.
Watching Emma as she slept tugged him deep inside. Her short, light breaths lifted an errant curl from one cheek, let it fall on the outward sigh. Dark shadows resembling bruises darkened the pale skin beneath her eyes, her coppery hair striking against those cheeks. She looked small and defenceless under the covers, bringing all his protective mechanisms to the fore, making him want to crawl onto the bed and hold her close, keep the world at bay until she was ready to face it again.
He’d never seen her so lost. Oh, sure, she’d deny that faster than a blink, but she was confused, dealing with emotions she knew and expected and didn’t want. She’d been brave today; so very, very brave. Not a hint of regret apparent, but there had to be a lot of tugging towards that baby going on inside.
Emma was a loving soul. Since he’d learned she was pregnant, he’d seen how she’d loved that baby growing inside her. Yet not once, even on those bleak days when she’d felt wobbly about it all—and there had been some, though she’d only ever talked to him about her feelings once—had she said anything to suggest she wouldn’t give up Grace to her rightful mother.
From what he’d seen, Emma and Abbie had a strong, unbreakable bond so that had never been going to happen. Apparently the two women had seen each other through some terrible times. Abbie’s husband had passed away from cancer, and from idle gossip in the department he knew Emma had been married to a violent man—which made him seethe with impotent fury just thinking about it. He shoved the anger aside. It had no place here, and if Emma had managed to walk away from that husband then he had no right resurrecting her history, if only in his head. She needed positive vibes.
Nixon’s heart expanded. If ever there was an amazing gift, Emma had given it to her friend. Her generosity knew no bounds, but in the coming days she’d need someone to lean on and he was putting his hand up. As the friend he’d already been for her.
Oh, really? some strange, illogical emotion deep inside asked.
His phone pinged with an incoming text. Nixon read the message his uncle Henry had sent to all the family.
Hope everyone has a lovely time at the birthday party in Wellington this weekend. I’ll be thinking of you. Sorry you can’t make it either, Nixon.
